


ele me marca

by horchata



Category: The Social Network (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 20:53:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5306414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horchata/pseuds/horchata
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark has a thing for Eduardo's ring, likes to feel the warmed metal pressing into his skin.</p>
            </blockquote>





	ele me marca

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crediniaeth](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crediniaeth/gifts).



Mark is certainly self-aware enough to know when his body needs something: take a piss, take a drink, move out of the way of someone in the opposite direction. It takes a well-honed sense of space to avoid getting in other people's personal bubbles, and as someone with an extensive and well-defended personal bubble, Mark can respect a guy's need to keep that personal space rule intact, all the time.  
  
  
Apparently, they don't have that rule in Brazil.  
  
  
Eduardo guides Mark by the small of his back down hallways. He bumps his shoulder against Mark's shoulder in greeting. He puts the backs of his fingers on Mark's forehead when he teases him about getting angry at people on forums. He leans his whole goddamn body against Mark when drunk,  _while he's coding,_ just leaning for no purpose whatsoever, as if the side of the couch wasn't a perfectly adequate way to stay upright.  
  
  
Eduardo is  _everywhere._  
  
  
And today, he's standing behind Mark, this silent, hovering mass of expectant energy. Mark would like to think he could be too engrossed in his work to notice, but since his headphones shorted out, Mark's concentration has wavered. Mark's never forgotten how annoying it is to be wracked with outside stimuli, and without the soft crackling fuzz of the noise-cancelling setting on top of his extra loud music, it's been increasingly annoying and impossible to parse them all out.  
  
  
Especially since the current source of outside stimulation is the entire length of Eduardo's body, zeroing in on a distance that feels like less than three centimeters, and a single hand, slowly kneading his shoulder.  
  
  
"Mark," Eduardo says, shaking a little. " _Mark._ "  
  
  
Mark stares ever more resolutely at his screen.  
  
  
Eduardo's fingers curl around the jersey fabric and it catches some of Mark's skin. Eduardo squeezes the fistful, and Mark's neck lights up bright with short pain. Mark tries to shrug him off, and Eduardo squeezes again. Firmly. Presses down.  
  
  
Mark's skin burns. The twist of friction is the biggest culprit, but he feels, against the muscle in his neck, the hard press of Eduardo's ring. It's textured. The sensation is so different from the regular slide of Eduardo's smooth knuckles. Mark can feel it distinctly. Confused, frustrated, and wanting to be contrary, Mark pushes back into Eduardo's fist.  
  
  
Eduardo pushes back harder. And harder.  
  
  
"Mark. We're going to miss dinner."  
  
  
"There's food here." Mark braces a foot on the bottom of his desk, straightens his leg. Eduardo hums an irritated note low in his chest in response, adds his other hand on Mark's opposite shoulder.   
  
  
"Fine, we're going to miss food that _didn't_ come out of a _box_."  
  
  
"All the food we'd get here came in a box in some way, unless you're somehow implying the dining hall has been relocated to a co-op--"  
  
  
" _Mark_ ," Eduardo growls, and turns his fingers again in the neck of Mark's hoodie. "Mark, we need to  _go._ "

  
"Fuck, _ow_ ," Mark says, finally twisting away in his chair, hand coming up to his neck. Their eyes catch for a moment, and Mark sees Eduardo see something on his face before he can look away and down.  
  
  
"Ah, shit, I'm sorry!" and Eduardo's backed off, presumably by a few paces, as Mark stands and turns. "Shit, man. Are you--"  
  
  
"I'm fine." Mark rubs his fingers lightly over his skin. He can feel the tiny ripples of the Saverin crest, or whatever it is from the ring. Eduardo's ring. Sensations lift along his spine and swoop in his gut. Mark exhales hard, blinks. He feels  _branded_. 

  
"Are you sure? I was kinda pissed off and--"  
  
  
"Let's go." Mark grabs his keys and shoves them in his pocket, forcing his other hand away from his neck (probably red by now, probably close to bruising). He knows Eduardo feels bad. He'll probably buy dinner then. Good.   
  
  
When they're outside, in the dark, Mark's fingertips find the grooves of the keys and rub against them. Mark imagines feeling the same kinds of peaks and valleys in other places, shallow indentations of gold on his collarbone, or over softer skin. Mark itches, shallow nerves ghosting heat along his neck, and puts a step between him and Eduardo's freely-swinging hands, between himself and the glint from his fingers.

 

 


End file.
